


quando mi dicon vai a casa rispondo sono già qua

by calafurias



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22683571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calafurias/pseuds/calafurias
Summary: The flat looks frozen in time. Even the empty pink bowl is still perched on the table exactly as he left it, save for the mould growing over it.
Relationships: Peter Marwood & Withnail
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	quando mi dicon vai a casa rispondo sono già qua

**Author's Note:**

> title from _Cara Italia_ @ Ghali  
"_When they tell me to go home/I tell 'em I'm already here_"  


Withnail’s name is still on the doorbell, Marwood notes, so either the landlord has not bothered to remove the paper taped onto it, or Withnail has somehow managed to trick the judge once again. Knowing both, either are possible.  
“It’s twenty quids” the cabbie says, shouting at him from the taxi, and that’s what gets Marwood out of his haze. He pays, distractedly, still amazed by the fact that he can just do that instead of running away down the street as fast as he can, before pushing the wooden door and getting into the old building. 

  
It appears that Withnail has not bothered to change the lock on the door, because Marwood’s old key still works. The flat looks frozen in time; even the empty pink bowl is still perched on the table, exactly as he left it, save for the mould growing over it. That, Marwood concurs after having put his glasses on and studied its spread, can’t be older than two weeks.  
“I thought my father came to pick my stuff up.” Marwood asks. Even though the living room is devoid of human presence, he knows that Withnail must be in there, somewhere.   
“Bloody fucker wouldn’t step foot in there. Said something about catching diseases." Withnail emerges from the bedroom - not his own, Marwood notices, but the one that was once his - a jacket draped over his shoulders and nothing else. He had the decency to put on socks, at least. “What the fuck are you doing there?”  
“Why the fuck are you sleeping in my room?”  
“Danny’s sleeping in mine - Your bed was bigger, anyway. And it’s not fucking yours anymore! You haven't paid your rent in ages!"  
“Why is Danny here?” Marwood asks, tossing his hat over the kettle.  
“Why are you here?” Danny asks, coming out from Withnail’s room. At least he’s dressed. “Oh God, you cut your hair. No wonder you are a fucking cunt now, you can’t catch the waves.” He turns to Withnail. “Cut the fella some slack, Withnail, it’s not his fault. Government got him.”  
“Shut up you fucking wanker. Go away Danny, go fuck yourself!"   
Danny moves into Withnail’s space, his fisted hand coming to rest under Withnail’s jaw. “Remember who helped you keeping this rathole, asshole!”  
Marwood moves out of habit, arms circling Withnail’s thin waist from behind in a futile attempt to keep the fucker from fighting back. “Danny, please.” Marwood pleads. Apparently, that’s enough to make Danny step back and get out of the flat. He doesn’t know if Danny and his stupidly long hair can catch the neural waves of his panic attacks or whatever, except, God, if Danny can read his mind then he’s _fucked._ And what if it’s not only Danny? Jesus fucking Christ, he’s not fucked he’s worse he’s -  
“So!” Withnail says, grinning like the maniac he fucking is and freeing himself from Marwood’s clasp. “I guess your job didn’t really work out, dear Marwood. Not exactly a surprise, if you ask me.”  
“What about yours?”  
Withnail lights himself a fag and doesn’t bother offering one to Marwood. “Stupid agent wanted me to play a tramp. _A bloody tramp_. Me.” He still sucks on the filter like a babe would with a tit, with too much force and not enough finesse. “I was generous enough to offer them your name, though. I thought it could fit you nicely, the role of a fucking ranting homeless. Did they call you?”  
Marwood jumps on the old sofa and finds it exactly as uncomfortable as he remembers it. "No. Guess they found someone more fit for the role.” Even the notes he forgot are still here, buried between the cushions and old morning papers. “Here we are again, Withnail."  
"Want a drink?"   
"You and I, once again, in the same boat." Marwood raises his anti-freeze flask against Withnail's lighting liquid bottle. "Cin-Cin."   
"Cin-Cin. I already told you, you gigantic cunt, the only thing we have been together in is this shithole of a flat."  
"And Monty's shitty excuse for a country house." Marwood argues, just because he can do so again. He watches as Withnail steals his drink.  
"I wouldn't advise you to mix drinks together."  
"I would advise you to shut the fuck up, Marwood."  
Marwood, just this once, complies, and lets his spine be moulded back again by the springs coming out of the ripped sofa in complete silence.  
"I thought you'd go home- after you realized the job was a scam." Withnail has seated himself on the rug, between two vomit stains that Marwood doesn't remember being there when he left. Withnail must be drunk already, not that this comes off as a surprise, really, but he’s already slurring and his eyes are falling shut every time he tries to blink. It’s only a matter of minutes before he’ll fall unconscious, Marwood realizes. He ought to make the most from this occasion and turn the fucking thermostat down to a more bearable temperature, before whatever shit Withnail has been smoking settles into his lungs too and his thumbs turn weird again.  
He could argue about the job not being a total scam, but that’ll only get Withnail vigilant again and screaming about directors and their attitudes and that’s the opposite of what he needs right now. Later, Marwood decides. Later, he’ll tell Withnail about how his director was a whiny asshole and will listen to Withnail’s never ending rants about the true spirit of theatre. For now, he takes the ‘53 wine bottle that has been left unsupervised on the table and walks as innocently as possible towards the thermostat. "That's what I did Withnail, duh." 

**Author's Note:**

> Withnail and I fic in 2020? More likely than you think!  



End file.
